Rifal Imam, 21 Lightbulbs

21 Lightbulbs

Rifal Imam

Yellow overhead lights. 21 lightbulbs. 3 silver MacBooks, 1 black Dell. Four glaring laptop screens, one consistently blank. Empty cup. 1 unfinished glass water bottle. seven p.m. beachfront. It’s pretty dark out, the waves look almost black. The winds push them to the front. Crashing, washing. Away with the day’s imprints on their dear friend Sand. I wonder what they communicate to each other. Do they laugh at the passersby? Maybe empathize with them?

White shirts. Green aprons. “What’s your order ma’am?” “Just one smoothie, and one water, please.” He offers to open the bottle. The smoothie has a banana punch. I hate bananas. 8 p.m. “Real food crafted by nature.” Vegan wraps and cauliflower shawarmas. 12 women pictured on the hung-up plate. They look like carrots from here.

Blank screen. Still. Classical music overhead. Felukah in ears. Wired headphones. They’re in style now! I actually just lost my AirPods. Oops. A change of scenery, I convince myself, is all I need to get back into shape. But. The plants look dehydrated. Same. The couch looks comfortable. The clock reads ten-thirty.

The screen stays blank. I feel like SpongeBob.

Keyboards clacking: “T” “H” “E”

They say atmosphere matters. Put yourself in the right atmosphere and you can accomplish anything. Perhaps the atmosphere is more interesting than the accomplishing.

The screen is no longer blank, The. Only.